


Second Semester Senior Year

by SomedayTheSky



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Betaed, Class Differences, Enjolras Is Bad At Feelings, Getting Together, Latino Character, M/M, Musician Grantaire, Rich Enjolras, Trans Enjolras, Trans Male Character, Wow, grantaire is actually the more emotionally stable of the two, not sponsored by any universities in the city of boston, will probably make you go "aw", you've heard of the college au? now get ready for the college admissions au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:33:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22611061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomedayTheSky/pseuds/SomedayTheSky
Summary: Enjolras is used to washing in and out of private schools in major world capitals according to the whims of his emotionally distant, crazy rich family; he’s determined not to get attached to anyone he’ll just have to leave behind. But then he meets Grantaire—ostracized, sharp, talented—only months before they both graduate high school, and things take a complicated turn. Featuring: Montecito, Steinway, and class differences.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 61





	Second Semester Senior Year

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for the beta read, Sabulum :)

Enjolras graciously thanks the cafeteria worker for heaping some food on his plate, then tuns and surveys his seating options, willing some instinctual frustration away. He _can_ be accepted if he tries—can be downright popular, he knows from experience. But hell, it’s draining. People are drawn to the pretty face and repelled by what is sometimes scathing indignation against the entire political structure of the entire world—morality that crashes through everything it touches, so bright it scalds. If Enjolras has to bite his tongue to be liked, he would rather just be alone.

But he won’t eat in a bathroom stall for five months to avoid the possibility of socialization. Not again. He’s a legal adult and wants to act like it.

Enjolras glimpses another young man sitting alone, caught up in some notebook, and gratefully sits with him, quite relieved to just read his own library book without casting himself as a complete misfit. 

He is caught off guard by the food. It’s amazing. White rice, black beans, tostones, pork—Enjolras doesn’t know his Latin American cuisines well enough to pick out a country, but if he had to guess, he’d say Cuban. He doesn’t know why such a white boarding school in rural Maryland is so good at making (probably) Cuban food. He doesn’t complain.

“What are you writing in there?” interjects a newcomer, sudden and loud and unmistakably threatening.

Enjolras knows that tone too well. He looks up. The guy who was sitting alone is now holding his notebook to his chest like he needs it to breathe. Some asshole yanks at it. 

“Fucking pussy,” the asshole pries the book from its owners grasp and whacks him on the back of the head with it. He riffles through the pages with his thumb. “Too retarded to learn English for your faggot love letters?”

Enjolras is on that shit so fast, standing so abruptly he knocks over his drink. The plastic cup clatters on the ground, spilling lemonade everywhere. “Give it back,” he snaps.

People stop their conversations, turn their heads.

“Give his book back,” Enjolras repeats, slower, more level.

The asshole raises his eyebrows. “New boyfriend, Grantaire?”

“Jealous?” shoots Grantaire right back. “If you’re so obsessed with where my dick goes, why don’t you just go ahead and suck it?”

Dead silence.

Someone several tables back fails to suppress a laugh. The rest of that table joins in. And suddenly it feels like the whole room is laughing. The guy sets the book down on the table and it looks like he’s about to walk away. All at once, he turns and shoves Grantaire out of his chair. “You’ll pay for this,” he says. But he looks kind of pathetic for engaging at all. Everyone’s laughing at him. He has no choice but to leave.

Enjolras rushes to Grantaire where he’s somewhat splayed out on the floor. “Shit,” he says, extending a hand. “Are you okay?”

“You don’t want to help me,” Grantaire says quietly, wincing as he sits up. “From now until graduation everyone will be calling you a fag and pushing you up against lockers and stuff. Okay? Thanks, I’m fine, get back to your life.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “Are you hurt?”

Grantaire looks up, his gaze somehow heavy. He starts to say something and never finishes as Enjolras braces an arm around his shoulders and pulls him to his feet. “Who are you?” he asks, voice quiet and small and struck. 

“Enjolras.”

Grantaire shakes his head, blinking quickly again. “Damn,” he says. “Hi.”

“Pleased to meet you.” Enjolras releases his shoulders gently. Grantaire seems fine for about a second, then winces theatrically as his knees buckle seemingly out of nowhere.

“Oh yikes, guess I’m injured,” Grantaire says pathetically as Enjolras scrambles to catch him. “Looks like you have to carry me to my room.”

—————

Enjolras doesn’t quite have the upper body strength to haul a guy across campus, but he walks with one arm tight around Grantaire’s shoulders and the other hand ghosting across his lower back, both of their bags slung across himself. They pass big stone buildings, amphitheaters, gardens, dedicated lacrosse athletes playing on grassy lawns despite the chill and the darkening sky. Enjolras recognizes the path to the dormitories and steers them toward it, but Grantaire stops him with a light, cautious hand on his shoulder, like he’s scared Enjolras could just blow away, and leads in the opposite direction.

They both are very silent—Grantaire is worried about saying the wrong thing, and Enjolras is simply enjoying what he sees. There are so many trees. He’s used to being crushed to death on the Piccadilly line on the way to class, trampled at the Gare du Nord. Los Angeles is sprawling and open, of course, but it’s all smog and freeways. This is a veritable wooded wilderness, something you could picture the British colonists finding and building a country out of, and believing that country belonged to God.

But fuck Earth’s natural ecological beauty, Enjolras is mostly concerned with how Grantaire looks in his cuffed jeans—is he bi? He wears all kinds of little silver bands; his wrists and fingers catch the sunset light. His eyes are dark. The kind of dark you just want to climb into and fold over your head like a blanket when your whole life has been fluorescence. 

“This is it,” Grantaire says abruptly, gesturing to a building at the end of the block. Only now does Enjolras realize he’s likely been staring quite openly at his companion for the past few minutes. He’s not exactly embarrassed. It doesn’t seem like his company particularly minds.

Enjolras mumbles some small acknowledgment, eager to continue what he feels is a soothing quiet. 

“You want to…” Grantaire bravely presses on anyway, “I don’t know, maybe come inside?”

Enjolras wonders distantly whether he’s ever been invited into someone’s house before. He has gone on playdates set up and supervised by nannies at country clubs and private beaches. He once was invited into the back of a van to pour milk in his eyes when tear gas broke out during a riot. That’s basically the same thing, right? There’s a random and unwelcome pang in his chest for, like, just a normal mom who wears sweatpants and sometimes offers to pour lemonade, and a dad who likes football or something. He shushes it fast; he knows better.

They’re at the front door now, Grantaire still waiting for a response as he takes a key from his pocket and slots it into the lock. It’s a one-story home—cracking paint and empty window planters.

“Thank you, I’d love to come in,” Enjolras says as the door creaks open. It feels good to say. He forgets why exactly he was forbidding himself from saying it.

Grantaire shoots him the strangest smile, full of words in a language Enjolras doesn’t speak.

They step into a spare but immaculate living room. Beige carpet, a chunky TV on an old classroom desk, a picture of Jesus on the otherwise bare walls. A carefully made twin bed is tucked into the corner. Grantaire locks the front door, checks it, and heads breezily into what seems to be one of three rooms in the whole house.

Enjolras follows, unable to keep the smirk off his face; Grantaire’s legs are apparently all better.

There are notebooks and papers and bits of costume jewelry everywhere, and a predictably pink-purple-blue striped flag pinned against one wall, and at least six empty bottles of various alcoholic beverages littering the floor. The bed is a plain mattress with a blanket thrown on top of it.

Grantaire shoves a massive pile of laundry onto the floor, revealing a chair pulled up to a cheap electric keyboard. “Do sit,” he says, gesturing grandly.

Enjolras carefully hangs Grantaire’s bag over the back of the chair and places his own on the floor. “Thank you.” 

They both stare at each other in silence.

Enjolras regrets everything. He’s just not a very fun person. Never has been.

“You wanna watch TV?” Grantaire asks, shrugging. “I mean, I don’t know what kind of shows you like, but—”

“You didn’t actually tell me your name.”

“Grantaire.” He sits down on his bed. The force of it knocks more random clutter to the floor.

Enjolras looks at his hands, trying to seem like he doesn’t notice. “Can I ask why you live here?”

“My cousin—my guardian—she works at the cafeteria. I help her out, so I’m usually hanging around there, but I do high school online.”

“Oh,” Enjolras says, frowning. “I was hoping… I don’t know what I was hoping.”

Grantaire smiles knowingly, tapping his fingers against his thighs. “You won’t have such a bad time here. I mean, most of the teachers are fine. Kids just give _me_ shit, you know, I can’t punch back and they have masculinities to affirm.” 

Enjolras folds his arms, unable to resist half an eye roll. “The least we can do as men is not slap one another’s wrists when one of us strays outside pernicious and arbitrary lines that confine and restrict us all. I’m so upset no one else tried to stand up for you.”

Grantaire doesn’t know about all that, but he’s charmed by the thought, by the desire for the thought. He restlessly crosses over to where Enjolras is still standing by the chair and sets a hand on his shoulder very tentatively. When Enjolras doesn’t explode or catch fire or run away, Grantaire takes a tiny step closer and rubs the stiff fabric of the blazer underneath his thumb. He bites his lip. “Want to get drunk with me?”

“I don’t drink,” Enjolras says, and it’s immediate, but it sounds distracted.

“Mm-hm,” Grantaire hums, watching Enjolras watch his lips. “Afraid to get caught?”

Enjolras pulls back gently, frustrated. “What is all this liquor doing on your floor?”

Grantaire is absolutely entranced even as he appears somewhat hurt. “Maybe you should mind your own business.” He stills for a moment, seems like he might reach for Enjolras again, stops himself.

Enjolras pinches the bridge of his nose, realizing what Grantaire may want and not quite sure what to do about it. “I’m transgender,” he blurts out.

“Really? But you look like a— I mean, you don’t look like it.”

He looks like a _real_ guy, not the fake Grantaire now thinks him to be. “I guess we could watch TV,” Enjolras suggests, backing away a few steps, urgently searching for a way to circumvent this whole conversation.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire tries to take his hand, interrupt the fear gently. 

Enjolras, now almost in a state of panic, pulls away like someone struck him, rambles, “With the required recommendation of a licensed psychiatrist noting that I am of sound mind, aware of the risks of hormone replacement therapy, and fit the criteria for gender dysphoria as outlined in the DSM-5, I inject a hundred milligrams of testosterone into my thigh once a week and complete regular endocrinological and psychiatric maintenance appointments, but I could never have received the subcutaneous mastectomy or any of the rest of it if I didn’t already know with every fiber of my being that I am a man— I swear each breath I took living as female was nails on a chalkboard, and the chalkboard was on fire, and the nails were, too—”

“Hey,” Grantaire stops him firmly. “It’s okay.”

“I’m not gonna let you think I’m trying to trick you. I’m not what you want.”

Without pausing, Grantaire shoots back, “What I _want_ is for a gorgeous man such as yourself to have sex with me, thank you very much.” He blushes profusely and walks away, deeply embarrassed of himself. “I am so sorry,” he says after a while. “I don't blame you if you want to leave. You probably should.”

Enjolras is completely unprepared for this. He tries to work out the correct thing to do in this situation. His brain spits out, “Do you have a condom?” 

Grantaire pulls one out from underneath his bed. “Thank god for Baltimore pride.”

“Thank god for queers who refuse to let AIDS be forgotten,” Enjolras agrees, examining the blue foil for an expiration date. “Are you sure, Grantaire?” he asks, quiet, somewhat in shock.

“Yes,” Grantaire says, “if you feel safe with me, and ready, and you, like, want to—”

The next thing Enjolras knows he’s shoving Grantaire against his mattress and pulling off his coat. “You’re so beautiful,” he observes, matter-of-fact. 

Grantaire smiles like he’s asking very politely to not to be looked at this way, to just get on with things. He has not been so much as hugged by another person in years and he might have underestimated how intense it feels to have physical touch rush back in all at once. He buries his head in Enjolras’ shoulder. It smells like expensive shower gel and fair trade black coffee. He’s begging now—not for anything in particular—just about too soft to hear. 

“Okay. You’re— you’re going to be okay,” Enjolras promises. And he’s glad Grantaire isn’t looking because he’s tearing up now too. He finds himself clinging on tight, fingers snagged in dark hair. “Someone is going to be so fucking lucky to get you out of this awful world. You know that?”

—————

Grantaire grabs him by the tie and kisses him on the lips so hard a barista and three customers start to stare. “It is so unbearably good to see your gorgeous face, you complete asshole. Not a word out of you for a week—and then you practically beg me to get coffee?”

Enjolras is a little dizzy. He’s never seen anyone smile like this because of him. “I didn’t think you’d be awake.”

“I just haven’t gone to sleep yet.”

It’s eight in the morning. “I hope for your own sake that you’re kidding.”

Grantaire sits down quietly, neither confirming nor denying the facts of that story.

Enjolras reaches across the table and takes Grantaire’s hand very carefully. He gets another one of those smiles and he wants to rip the world up. “We can’t see each other, Grantaire,” he spits out before he loses his nerve.

“Yeah, I more or less got that.” Grantaire glances at Enjolras’ drink and fails to suppress a single ungraceful laugh. “Is that a _straw_ I see in your iced coffee—?”

“You came in here and kissed me in front of all these people— And I know, I feel like a terrible person, but it’s just what they gave me—”

“So just because Starbucks doesn't give a shit about sea turtles you think you have the right to kill them as a consumer?” Grantaire teases, already understanding enough about Enjolras to know how to get under his skin in ten seconds flat.

Enjolras pulls his hand back. “The responsibility for climate change doesn't rest in the hands of individual consumers—that's just a story companies tell you so you ignore the necessity of the institutional level reform that puts our lives before their profits.”

“Spicy.”

“Grantaire, _straight_ couples don’t even kiss like that in public,” Enjolras continues without so much as taking a breath, “and you know the PDA they’re capable of.”

“I’m sorry. I know it’s dangerous. I’ll control myself.” Grantaire tries not to sound too hopeful, too helpless. “I know I’m your booty call, Enjolras, not your boyfriend, so if that’s what you called me out here to tell me…”

Enjolras frowns. That’s not what’s going on here at all. He considers taking Grantaire’s hand again, thinks better of it. “I wish I could do better by you. But the more I even think about you the more I know— I just won’t be satisfied until I date you.”

A coy smile spreads slowly across Grantaire’s face. “Is that your way of asking me?”

Enjolras doesn’t even know where to start. “I… can’t. I mean… where are you even going to college?”

“What?”

“What are your college plans?”

He lets out a little breath, almost shocked. “What are my…?” 

Enjolras laughs, soft and incredulous. “Well, I won’t pretend it doesn’t matter to me.”

“I didn’t think you were like that.” 

“Like what?”

Grantaire stares down at the table for several moments, playing with his jewelry. He blinks a little too quick and hard and then forces his face into a smile. “Fine,” he says, voice tight, and then stands and leaves.

—————

Enjolras is used to isolation. Dubai, Buenos Aires, Tokyo—he has faced everything alone and rather enjoyed it. So the loneliness comes as a surprise. He pretends not to watch Grantaire work the cafeteria. Grantaire pretends not to watch him fill his plate. Enjolras, in a regretful moment of desperation, once intentionally spilled some juice on Grantaire’s shirt in an effort to just have one last conversation. Grantaire flipped him off and spilled juice right back. Then the shift manager at the cafeteria noticed and both pretended it was an accident.

Grantaire knows life would be hell for Enjolras at this school if the wrong person found out he’s trans, and yes Grantaire is nursing his resentment, but not so much that he wants Enjolras to get harassed, beaten, raped, cut up. Enjolras talks a big talk about fighting oppression, and Grantaire has no doubt it’s all sincere, but Grantaire has felt his soft hands—in a fight, Enjolras would never back down, and he wouldn’t know how to throw a punch either. When he hears Enjolras being teased for his “girly” bullet journaling habit behind his back, Grantaire gently quips back. Best to stop that train before it leaves the station. 

Enjolras is studying for a calculus test when he first hears jazz standards drift through the floor from the old upright piano in the school library basement. Almost Like Being in Love. Someday My Prince Will Come. Enjolras closes his textbook and drifts down the stairs, exhausted, eager for a distraction.

In the corner of this dark, dusty room, Grantaire is improvising to something he listens to on his phone. No sheet music. 

Enjolras nearly slips on the last stair. The noise startles Grantaire. He looks up.

Enjolras holds his breath. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t want to leave.

“Don’t tell anyone it’s me,” Grantaire finally says. “They assume it’s a student, I think. Might kick me out.”

“I won’t tell.” Enjolras hesitates, bites his lip. “You sound really good.”

Grantaire turns back to the piano and for a moment it seems like he’ll carry on playing as if Enjolras doesn’t exist. Then he mumbles, “Thank you.”

—————

Grantaire carefully closes his notebook, careful not to mess up the spiral binding, and starts to make his way home. Enjolras is slumped over halfway up the staircase, textbooks still open on his lap, apparently calmed so much by the piano he fell asleep.

Grantaire is beginning to think this is happening too often. He sneaks in during the evening and when he leaves at night Enjolras is without fail asleep on the staircase where he thinks Grantaire won’t notice him. This has to be more than simple curiosity and fatigue on Enjolras’ part.

Grantaire kicks Enjolras’ leg lightly to wake him up. 

“Grantaire…” Enjolras mumbles, still half asleep, “You have such a gift.”

“Did you ever think that maybe I’m too stupid for college?” he asks all at once. It has been in the back of his mind for months.

Enjolras freezes, suddenly alert. “You’re not stupid—”

“Yes, I am. Objectively, empirically, I am.”

“You are _not_ stupid,” Enjolras says again, more emphatic. “These things can’t be measured objectively and empirically.”

Grantaire folds his arms across his chest. “What’s your SAT score?”

“Sixteen hundred, but—”

This is the highest possible score on the American standardized college admissions test. Only a fraction of a percent of students get it. “Sometimes I just want to punch you.”

Enjolras starts collecting his textbooks, methodical and precise in every action. “But I had private math and language tutors my entire life, Montessori school, prep school, extra college counselors, academic summer programs, three SAT specific coaches that have been drilling me since eighth grade. I took the SAT five times to get the score I wanted. That perfect score is the result of my hard work, yes, but it’s hard work that I could never have done if I didn’t have hundreds of thousands of dollars at my disposal. So fuck your score. Fuck my score. I’m no genius, and you’re no idiot.” 

Grantaire sits on the stairs next to Enjolras and tries hard not to look at anything in particular. “I hear you’re going to Harvard… You don’t seem very happy.”

Enjolras frowns, careful not to accidentally turn his head and find his lips a centimeter away from Grantaire’s cheek. “If I work hard, I’ll hopefully get into Harvard Law in three years. I want to help people, fix things. Law is probably the best way for me to do it. And Harvard is the best place to get a law degree.”

“I asked if you’re happy.”

“Who the fuck cares?” Enjolras asks, at once fierce and emotionless. “I can’t throw my privilege away. I have to make it _for_ something. How many people who think like me could ever get prestigious law degrees? Anyone can run some middling charitable non-profit.”

Grantaire smiles slightly. “Is that what you want to do? Run an organization? ”

Enjolras runs his hands through his hair for a long moment. “No,” he says eventually.

“Why did you ask about college if you understand how difficult it is for someone like me to go to college?” Grantaire asks. Enjolras’ shoelace is untied. It looks wrong against the otherwise impeccable state of his clothes. He resists the urge to fix it.

“I wanted to know if you’d be geographically close to me.”

“I thought it was a deal breaker if I didn't have some fancy degree.”

“I know,” Enjolras says simply. For just a moment he allows himself to glance into Grantaire’s eyes. He hears himself saying, “It would hurt too much to stop loving you in a few months.”

Grantaire shrugs. “You were right to do what you did. I was caught up in the night. I wasn’t thinking. We’re just too different. Nothing I’ll ever be able to provide could hold a candle to what you already own. You’d always have to pay for me. I’d resent losing my independence. We could never be equal in anything.”

Enjolras takes offense to this. “I’m not so materialistic. And it’s not _my_ money. One day I’ll be on my own.”

“You’ll be with a debt-free Harvard Law degree and a thousand friends in high places, darling.” Grantaire turns over Enjolras’ wrist, who straightens slightly, thinking Grantaire might just hold his hand one last time for some kind of closure. “Cartier,” Grantaire observes, tapping Enjolras’ watch, half a smirk on his face. “Enjolras, do you understand I’m not even middle class? We’re not talking about exchanging the summer estate in Santa Barbara for a more of a winery villa in Los Olivos. We’re talking about just barely making the EBT card stretch through the whole month by subsisting off of nothing but beans and tortillas for five days straight.”

EBT card—Enjolras is almost certain he’s heard this term before. “What does that mean?”

“Exactly. Frankly, I’m going nowhere and fast.” Grantaire stands and thrusts his hands in the pockets of his sweater. “Goodnight, Enjolras. Your shoe is untied.”

—————

The next time Grantaire sits at the piano, it’s laden with stacks of pamphlets. Music conservatories and scholarship applications. For a moment, he’s deeply angry at Enjolras for refusing to give up and acknowledge that Grantaire is completely devoid of potential and talent and could never stand a chance at affording college even if he was the best pianist in the world. Is this a cruel joke? A funny joke? He shoves everything onto the floor in a flurry of paper and frustration and sits at the piano like he intended, meaning to touch up the left hand part in the song he’s writing.

Heavy cardstock and shiny gold letters. Grantaire nudges it with his foot. The pamphlet does not, in fact, bite him. He begrudgingly picks it up, greeted with a large glossy image of an orchestra and some cheesy quote about “finding your place.” He smells the paper, wondering what it must feel like to pick up one of these pamphlets and know you could step inside its reality if you just wanted to bad enough.

—————

“What do I have to do?” Grantaire asks abruptly, sliding in next to Enjolras at his empty table in the cafeteria.

Enjolras glances up from his book, almost spooked to see Grantaire talking to him in public in the light of day. “Hi.” He awkwardly sits up straighter. “Um, well, you’ll need to send in your transcript and demographic info. You may need letters of recommendation, essays, the SAT. Most music schools want applicants to audition and interview in person. And for financial aid, you’ll need to file a FAFSA for federal assistance and a CSS for institutional assistance, and have your and your parents’ tax returns for last year for them to verify.”

Grantaire processes this, then nods with some finality, standing up and shoving his hands in his pockets. “Okay, thank you.”

Enjolras pushes his rice around with his fork absently. “You by no means have to. But it would be a shame for you to close this door just because you think it wasn’t meant for you.”

“Even if I managed all the rest of it, I can’t just hop across the country for an audition.”

“Some places probably cover travel costs,” Enjolras thinks out loud. But he isn’t sure about food costs or hotel costs, and he knows all the variables psych Grantaire out. “Where do you want to go?”

Grantaire sits back down slowly. “I liked the… New England one. And—what was it—Berklee? And the L.A. one.”

Enjolras bites his lip and looks at the table intensely, like he’s working something out. Eventually, he says, “I can get you there.”

Grantaire is so caught off guard he forgets to laugh. “What?”

“We missed the deadlines for the first semester of next year. But if you submit your applications for the second semester... One of my aunts has a home near Los Angeles. Harvard has an admitted students event I need to attend anyway.”

Grantaire digs his fingers into the edge of the table, light-headed, giddy, vaguely upset. “My cousin’s gonna kill me for this. _Ten fé_ , you know, keep your head down and someday you’ll get the things you work so hard for. Don’t cause a scene thinking you can act how the white people act. That’s how you get into trouble…”

“But what if everyone took that advice?” Enjolras points out. “For one thing, we’d have no United Farm Workers…”

He takes a shaky breath. “I don’t think I have anything left to lose.”

—————

Grantaire vomits his guts out into a paper bag in the lobby of the airport. 

Enjolras pats his back. “You could have told me you get motion sick,” he says, so alarmed he is defaulting to irritation. 

“How was I supposed to know?” Grantaire shoots back. This was his first time on a plane—DC to California. Enjolras offers Grantaire a ginger-ale he just bought from a gift shop, and they sit side by side, Grantaire breathing deep, his eyes closed. The airport floors are a rich dark wood, and the walls were made to mimic the thick adobe of traditional Spanish architecture.

“I can’t believe you actually have an estate in Santa Barbara,” Grantaire says, giving Enjolras a look. He takes a sip of ginger-ale.

“Montecito,” Enjolras corrects lightly. “How are you feeling? The driver is outside when you’re ready.”

Grantaire pulls himself together and ventures outdoors, determined not to be a hindrance. He is almost blinded by how perfectly Southern Californian the whole scene is. The sky is intensely blue. Rows of palm trees sway in the soft, warm breeze, silhouetted by the blocky white walls of the building. “Damn,” he mumbles. 

“It is beautiful, isn’t it?” Enjolras says, like he’s sort of just realizing it for the first time.

From what Grantaire can gather, the whole town—especially the downtown—is more or less like this. Enjolras points things out as they drive past in the chauffeured car. That majestic Spanish-looking fortress is a public high school. That one is a court. That one is where they forcibly converted Native Americans to Christianity a few hundred years ago. The car winds down a busy main street rimmed with shops with the same white walls and red tile roofs. The ocean lies straight ahead, dozens of little boats dotting the horizon, taking advantage of the wind. Dry, cliff-like peaks extend behind, too small to call mountains but too big to call hills. 

After a couple more miles they arrive on a road where all the lots are bordered by tall plants and hedges so that the common folk can’t see into the yards. Although the wild vegetation in this town is hanging on for dear life, here it seems to be almost unnaturally green. The driver punches a code into a number pad and the gate rolls open.

Grantaire thinks he might faint. It is, quite literally, a mansion—a series of luxuriously spacious Spanish villas connected by paths lined with lush grass, tastefully spare succulent gardens, and fountains. The road pulls up to an unnecessarily huge door at the top of a red tile staircase, around which some type of climbing vine is in full bloom. The driver stops the car and offers to take care of the luggage. Before Enjolras can refuse, Grantaire hurriedly thanks him. Why not have someone else do the annoying manual labor for a day or two?

“Jesus Christ, Enj,” Grantaire whispers as soon as they’re alone, the breeze playing in his hair. 

Enjolras takes him through the big door and down a hallway. There’s a woman here peaceably stirring something on a stove. It smells amazing. Enjolras introduces himself and Grantaire to her—apparently she’s a new chef—and then he continues out through another door, across a garden, and into a smaller building. This is apparently Enjolras’ portion of the home.

“Hundreds of thousands of dollars at your disposal,” Grantaire remarks, rolling in his suitcase and looking around. “I don’t know why I assumed you were exaggerating.”

Enjolras collapses on a couch darkly. “All I see in the money is how it was made. Exploitation, apathy, greed.”

“Is your family that evil, Cinderella?” he retorts. There’s a living area, an office, a bedroom, and a bathroom. Everything is spacious, comfortable, and beautiful—but it’s sterile. Like a really nice hotel. The living area and office have grand built-in shelving systems that are all completely empty. Usually when you walk into someone’s home, you’re hit with some kind of cozy smell. Here there is not even a single piece of dust or personal item on display.

Enjolras watches Grantaire taking it in. “Do you like it here?” he asks, seeming genuinely curious.

“Maybe hang a photo,” Grantaire admits. 

Enjolras is nothing but earnest and confused.

“How could you _not_ like it here?” Grantaire asks. “It’s paradise—the weather, the beach, the gardens—”

“How can you look at these gardens and not see the Chumash Natives whose stolen land they are built on, the undocumented workers paid unlivable wages to maintain them, the water that nourishes the plants as the rest of this city catches fire. And no, my family didn’t choose for Christopher Columbus to do his thing, and they didn’t cause the drought or make immigration law what it is. But I’ll be damned if they aren’t looking the other way as they reap the benefits that those institutions sowed while entire communities get ripped apart. My own complacency makes me sick. Grantaire, as soon as I get my degree, there’s no fucking excuse for me not to cut myself off.”

Grantaire sits on the couch next to Enjolras, overwhelmed. “So, I’m no economist, but from my limited knowledge, if you are lucky enough to get money, you don’t get rid of it just to soothe your ego. It’s not like you’re selling out. With or without a safety net, you’re gonna do what you’re gonna do. And like I said, even if you don’t have the cash, coming from this background gives you connections, knowledge. You have privilege, Enjolras, you can’t help that—didn’t you say you want to use it? Why does that have to end at twenty-five, when you suddenly rewrite two decades of your life? No shame in playing the system.”

Enjolras abruptly stands and puts his suitcase away, not wanting to reveal how deeply seen he feels in this moment.

“Well, can I see the rest of this mansion you resent?” Grantaire asks, shedding some of the layers he put on for the cold plane. “I, for one, am having a great time.”

“I’m really not supposed to wander around the main house.”

“Isn’t it your family’s?”

“It’s full of priceless art. When I was five, I put a fingerprint on a painting, and now I have to stay out.” Enjolras considers. “If you want to see stuff, we could go somewhere.”

—————

They walk side by side down the sunny brick-paved streets. Grantaire makes jokes about the stores and the people and how decidedly un-Californian Enjolras is. In a downtown of sun-bleached blondes, overpriced yoga pants, and botox, Enjolras is as austere and unindulgent as if he got lost on the way to Chernobyl. Grantaire asks him if there is any form of excess he enjoys, and Enjolras replies ice cream, and they stop for a cone at what Enjolras swears is the best ice cream place on the west coast. The thirty minute line is worth it to see him brighten up. 

Both meander along the wooden pier that extends into the ocean, stopping to comment on the pelicans. They wander through a small aquarium built on top of the pier. Grantaire is thrilled to plunge his hand into the tank of swell sharks—at about a foot and a half, more like sleepy fish than anything, they swell up with water when threatened, and are generally safe to lightly pet when in captivity. Enjolras swears he doesn't want to put his hand in because the water’s cold. An aquarium staff member and Grantaire jointly convince him to touch one. Enjolras later convinces Grantaire to pet a sea cucumber, promising him it’s really not that slimy. (It is.)

They walk out to the edge of a dock behind a restaurant, mostly alone except for some quiet hopeful fishermen and a lesbian couple that thinks they’re being slick about holding hands. One lesbian shoots Enjolras and Grantaire fingerguns, which Grantaire returns as Enjolras gives a nod of somber political solidarity, vaguely confused. Grantaire takes off his shoes, sits with his legs dangling into the ocean, and stares out across the waves. Enjolras hesitantly sits down too, crossing his legs a little ways back from the edge. 

The sun is making Grantaire’s hair glow bronze. “I have to get out of that town,” he whispers. Then he turns to Enjolras with a slight smile. “I didn’t know… I just didn’t know.”

Enjolras, as always, is very aware of the space between their fingers. 

—————

Grantaire manages a smile, trying not to seem like a dumbass as he fails to use chopsticks eating his macrobiotic locally sourced organic sushi. “I’m from Maryland.”

“But where are you from originally?”

“...Maryland.” Here he drops a clump of rice. “My dad is from New Orleans and my mom is from Cuba if that’s what you mean.”

“How exotic,” Enjolras’ aunt says between sips of wine. “I always thought Latin men make the best lovers.” She winks suggestively at Enjolras.

Enjolras frowns. “He’s too young for you.”

“And your parents, what do they do?” asks the aunt.

Grantaire’s half-assed smile falls. He puts the chopsticks down. The aunt gazes at him with this uncanny expression; Grantaire can’t tell if she’s genuinely interested or trying to catch him out, make him slip up. “They’re… imprisoned,” he says quietly.

Enjolras instinctively touches Grantaire’s elbow. 

“Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry to hear that,” says the aunt, still in this uncomfortable halfway point between authentic sympathy and fake pity.

Grantaire brushes his hand over Enjolras’. “It’s okay,” he says, and means it. 

—————

Enjolras smoothes a blanket over his couch repetitively, absently. He doesn’t make eye contact with Grantaire, who is curled up in the armchair scrolling through his phone. “I’m truly very sorry,” he says at last.

Grantaire looks over at him, confused. 

“Your parents—I didn't know.”

He puts down the phone. “Enj, my father was not a good person. He deserves to be in jail. I wish my mother would have been sent to rehab and therapy instead. I wish that more than anything. But honestly, they both made my life tremendously unsafe and unstable.”

“Do you like your cousin?” Enjolras asks.

“She’s very… traditional. Definitely praying for me to forget this bisexuality crap and find a nice Catholic Cuban girl. I like that she’s always the same. I like that about you, too.”

Enjolras sits on the couch, curls his knees into his chest. “Most of my family still thinks of me as a girl, I think.” He glances up at Grantaire, wishes he could bottle the feeling of being looked at by him. “Have you ever loved the adult who takes care of you?”

Grantaire doesn’t have to think about it. “I love my mom.”

“You said she wasn’t good for you.”

“I can see her flaws and still love her.”

Enjolras runs a hand through his hair, trying to understand. “I think a lot of my family is addicted to drugs. Xanax, adderall, that kind of thing.”

“You _think_?”

“We’re usually not in the same country. But even when we’re in the same house, we barely look at each other. The conversation is fake. I know you notice.” Enjolras bites his lip, uncomfortable. “For rich people, getting objects is easy. And accumulation isn’t satisfying if it’s easy. So we find other ways of getting the dopamine, the adrenaline. Stealing. Bodies. Drugs. More and more of it, until it takes us over. I swore I was never gonna be like that.”

Grantaire nods. “I swore I was gonna be different than the people around me, too. Until my mom. And then it didn’t matter anymore. I started fighting and shit. Beating kids up—anyone who insulted her, who looked down on me. I was good at it, too. I could take any of the idiots who call me a spic, but I’m scared they’d get me fired. So I just sit there. Crack jokes.” He sighs, hugging his arms, and takes a moment. “I didn’t realize how much I was drinking until you came in my room and pointed it out to me. And you know what? I was mad you pointed it out. I was hurt and… insulted. Because I knew deep down you were right.”

Enjolras quietly takes the blanket he was obsessively making perfect and throws it over Grantaire.

“Oh,” Grantaire says, catching the edge of it. It’s white and heavy and soft.

“Gets chilly at night here,” Enjolras explains nonchalantly. 

Grantaire gives him a grateful yet burdened glance and curls up under it. “Enj,” he says quietly. “I don’t want to go to jail for a chemical, or kill a guy over some fantasy that I own a street he stepped on, or spend my life working crap hours for crap pay for people who hate me.”

“You won’t,” Enjolras says with complete and total certainty. “One day soon, no one will.”

“When you talk like that, I almost believe you,” Grantaire says. “Run for office.”

Enjolras furrows his brow. “Of course. The law degree is a stepping stone to the senate.”

Grantaire picks up a pillow and throws it at his face. “Do you have literally your entire life planned out?”

“I find the fact that most people don’t deeply stressful.” Enjolras puts the pillow back in its proper place and straightens it dutifully. 

“But— Comparing your—” Grantaire collapses mid-sentence in a fit of laughter. “Constantly comparing your life to some template you made when you were ten, or eighteen— I mean, people change, and what they want changes, and that’s just normal. And there’s shit you just can’t plan for.”

“Yeah, like what?” Enjolras challenges a little weakly, grated that he can find no obvious logical errors with this succinct rebuttal of his entire worldview.

“You don’t know when you’re gonna meet someone who’s good with you.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “Nobody would be good with me because I’m not good with anyone. You should know.”

Grantaire shuts up. Eventually, he says, quiet and deliberate, “You didn’t _let_ me know.”

Enjolras wrings his hands together, wishing he could just undo this whole conversation. He grasps for the words. “Look, honestly, I never loved anyone or anything in my whole life besides the notion of a just world. I don’t think I’ll be able to start. I don’t even know how people know they’re in love. And I don’t need to be loved to be helpful, and that’s what matters.”

“But you deserve to be loved.”

“So do you,” Enjolras says, hushed. He swallows the lump rising in his throat. “Do you understand that one day I’ll have to be transgender on the national political stage?” He clenches his fists, works himself up a little more—more comfortable to be angry than afraid. “They’re going to stalk you, threaten you, bomb our house, shoot us. All because of this stupid fucking body.”

He didn’t mean to yell. He didn’t realize he was yelling until the silence that settled afterward seemed so gentle in comparison.

Grantaire softly objects, “I happen to like your body.”

“Maybe I can pay someone off to burn the name change records. The medical records,” he continues, matching Grantaire’s volume and his intensity but not his tone. “No one will ever have to know.” He hates how his voice wavers.

“I think that precisely because it’s currently so dangerous to be trans is why we need strong and decisive people like you as examples for the rest of the world.”

Enjolras can’t meet his eyes. “They’ll hurt you.”

“Fuck,” Grantaire sighs, exacerbated. “You think I can’t handle pain? Think I can’t stomach it? Think I fall apart when things get difficult?”

Enjolras’ eyes start to burn, so he shakes his head once, then quickly turns away, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.

“You don’t like feelings because you think if you show emotion, people will see you as a girl,” Grantaire postulates, stretching his legs out. “Being a real man does not mean being a cyborg. I already think you’re more of a man than most guys will ever be.”

Enjolras finally cracks. He holds his breath for a brief moment, wildly unfamiliar with the sensation of his own tears. He goes to Grantaire, wants nothing more than to be comforted by him, but for once in his life when he reaches for words he finds none. He slumps over on the floor in front of the armchair and lets himself cry, still and silent.

Grantaire watches in surprise for several seconds. A self-controlled, disciplined, fiercely independent firebrand and crusader should not be barely even daring to touch Grantaire’s legs as he lets himself break down under pressure for probably the first time in years, if not ever. He scoops up Enjolras to the best of his ability and hugs him tight, stroking his hair underneath the blanket.

“Grantaire?” Enjolras asks after a while, clinging to his waist, voice a little hoarse from crying.

“Yeah?” Grantaire whispers.

“Are you having a nice week?”

Grantaire laughs softly, his forehead pressed into Enjolras’ loose curls. “Best of my life.”

“Me too.”

—————

“That’s for _auditions_?”

The lady sitting in the middle of the table seems amused. “We’ll give you five minutes to warm up, and then we’ll get started. Okay?”

Grantaire takes a stumbling step forward, certain there has been some mistake. “I’m sorry, ma’am, that’s for _me_ to—” He can’t even finish the sentence, he is in such awe. It’s a Steinway & Sons Model B Grand Piano. It’s worth roughly a hundred thousand dollars. And as far as Grantaire is concerned, it is literally the most perfect instrument ever in every way. 

Grantaire’s curiosity quickly gets the better of his disbelief and he delicately presses a key, then clasps his hand to his chest like he just poked a wild animal. It’s stunning—perfectly tuned, ridiculously sensitive. Grantaire spins on his heel and walks a few paces away, heart pounding, then sits on the bench, finally giving himself permission to enjoy this. He presses the key again, trying to see how quiet and how loud the piano can sound. The range of volume—especially of quiet tones—is so much larger than what he’s used to. He watches the hammers hit the strings through the propped open top, the stage light bouncing against the white notes. He realizes he’s grinning like an idiot.

“Grantaire,” the auditioner lady repeats for the fourth time. She’s smiling too. “It’s a beautiful instrument, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” he agrees, and quickly blinks before he can start crying.

“Your first piece—we’re unfamiliar with this composer.”

“Oh, I wrote it.”

She raises her eyebrows in what Grantaire prays is enthusiastic surprise, and jots something down on her notepad. “Whenever you’re ready,” she tells him.

—————

Enjolras has been checking himself out in the mirror for at least thirty minutes now, trying to get his shirt tucked into his pants just right, cuffing and uncuffing the sleeves of his button down, switching back and forth between a gray jacket and a black jacket.

“You look fine,” Grantaire finally tells him, looking up from his notebook for the first time in an hour. Suddenly, sitting on stage and playing music for hundreds of people feels not so unfeasible, and it's making him scribble down melodies like he never has before.

Enjolras turns to Grantaire, distressed. “Are you sure?”

Grantaire gets up and assesses Enjolras. “This,” he indicates the severe tuck, “is a youth pastor in denial of his sexuality. _This_ ,” he pulls it out just a bit, giving the shirt a little more movement, “is a unionist politician at a meet-and-greet in middle America.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras says.

“You do _know_ that you’re handsome, right?”

“Am I?”

“Oh, shut up.” Grantaire takes a step back to admire his work. It’s missing something. He slides a ring off one of his fingers and places it on Enjolras’. “Perfect,” he declares.

Enjolras looks down at the ring and smiles sort of sadly, lets out a breath. He asks, voice shaky just around the edges, “Would you come with me?”

“I can’t. Like, Harvard won’t let me in.” At Enjolras’ crestfallen look, Grantaire takes his shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

“Maybe this is a mistake.”

“You see everything as so important,” Grantaire observes fondly. “But trust me, four years go by so fast. Four years out of eighty or so, god willing—that’s nothing. You are so, so much more than that.”

Enjolras hugs him gently. “No matter what happens, I am proud to call you my friend, okay?”

Grantaire wrinkles the shirt, clutching the back of it in his fists. “I still feel like a kid, Enj. I feel like any day I’ll go home to the Baltimore apartment—and my mom’s at the stove with the empanadas. One of the normal days. I miss them.”

“If being a kid is needing to be taken care of, everyone is still a kid sometimes,” Enjolras reasons. “I’ll be at Harvard longer than I’ve stayed anywhere in my life… What if they just don’t like me?” 

“Then fuck them, transfer, they missed out.” Grantaire presses his forehead into Enjolras’ curls and Enjolras lets out a little breath. The gesture is already so familiar, so reassuring. “I have the chance to do what I love to do,” Grantaire says softly. “And so do you. It scares me to try because what if I’m just not good enough? But in the end, I couldn’t live without music. Could you live without your causes?” 

“No,” Enjolras says, quite sure. “I have to fight.”

“When we’re boring and wrinkly, knitting ugly sweaters for grandkids, that’s what we’re gonna remember,” Grantaire smiles. “Aren’t we lucky for our passions? Some people search forever for what we happened to stumble upon.”

—————

Enjolras suddenly collapses into a fit of laughter, making Grantaire drop his pencil right in the middle of the page he was perfecting. The two had been in a deep, focused quiet for some time now, Grantaire writing and occasionally testing out ideas on his keyboard, Enjolras curled up on the bed doing homework on his laptop.

“They’re— they’re—” Enjolras starts to explain and then loses it again. “They’re inviting an all girl’s school over for a prom. It’s gonna be in the cafeteria.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “Horny teens with no concept of how much they can drink before they throw up party for one night only and then never have to see each other ever again? In the cafeteria I have to clean? Awesome.”

“I hope they use protection.”

Grantaire sets his notebook aside and delicately sits on the edge of his bed. “Can I ask you something personal?”

“Sure, anything.”

“Is it still possible for you to get pregnant?”

Enjolras shuts his laptop hard, a particular gleam in his eye like he’s about to drop some truth. “I am so glad you asked. In a study of American transgender men—”

“Oh—”

“—Five and a half percent reported that they used testosterone as birth control because their health care provider recommended it to them. But medical consensus indicates that testosterone doesn’t keep people with vaginas from getting pregnant. It just causes birth defects to the fetus.” Enjolras considers. “Did you mean me as in _me_?”

Grantaire gives him a look.

“Didn’t you feel the string of the IUD?” Enjolras sighs, sensing the confusion. “I’ll trade you. Tell me what an EBT card is.”

“You’re relentless,” Grantaire snorts. “Electronic Benefits Transfer. The government puts money on a card and you use it to buy groceries. Twenty-first century food stamps.”

“An IUD is a little T shaped thing a doctor can put into your uterus through your vagina and cervix. It prevents 99.9% of pregnancies for up to six or twelve years depending on the kind. And it has a little string that you can feel in the vagina to make sure it’s still there—I checked a few days ago. It is.”

“I guess I was too caught up in the moment,” Grantaire shrugs. He sits on his hands nervously. “Enj, you were my first.”

“I was?” he asks, gratified. “Wow. That’s really special. Thank you.”

Grantaire meets his eyes, smirking. “But I wasn’t _your_ first,” he punches Enjolras’ arm affectionately. 

“He had very sexy opinions about the disappearing middle class.”

“I’m sure.”

“I wanted to know what the fuss was about.”

“Probably out here getting laid in the Eiffel Tower.”

“I do love Paris,” Enjolras admits, which makes Grantaire flop onto his back, laughing. Enjolras’ heart twists. He wants to burn this into his brain—Grantaire, weak with joy at some dumb thing Enjolras would never dream of saying to anyone else. “Even if I never see you again in my life,” he says, suddenly serious, “I would be insane to throw away the chance to love you while I could.”

Grantaire stops laughing. “Enj, I… Of course I have feelings for you. I always have. You know that. But what if I’m stuck here forever?”

“I know it won’t be easy, but we can work things out. I just don’t want to go a single day without you.”

Grantaire grabs Enjolras and kisses him tenderly, full of care and compassion. They’re interrupted by Grantaire’s phone—the special ringtone he set for correspondence from colleges. He shoves the phone in Enjolras’ hands. Enjolras glances down and then back up at Grantaire, not sure if he should be the one to do this.

“Well?” Grantaire prompts, voice tight.

Enjolras offers his hand. Grantaire squeezes the life out of it. Grantaire has already been admitted to each school he applied to; this is no surprise to Enjolras. But financial aid and scholarship awards come separately, a little later. And that is really the deciding factor in whether or not, by some miracle, Grantaire can swing this. Enjolras taps the email, clicks the link, waits. _An update to your status has been posted_. Another link. He skims through the filler, the _thanks for your interest_ , _outstanding applicant pool_ , _holistic review_. 

_We are pleased to offer you_ —

Enjolras flings the phone onto the floor and tackles Grantaire in a hug.

“What? What did—” he starts to stammer. “Did they—?”

“Full tuition,” Enjolras whispers. 

Grantaire goes limp for a moment like someone broke him, then screeches into Enjolras’ shoulder, yanks him to his feet, and hugs him again.

“Full tuition, on-campus housing—”

“Oh my god—”

“And a laptop.”

“Oh my _god_ —”

“Berklee is serious about you.”

Grantaire loses his footing and falls back onto his bed, now sobbing, whispering to himself—“oh my god”—over and over. Enjolras sits next to him, puts his arm around Grantaire’s shoulders, still grinning. Grantaire looks up at him, tears streaming down his face. “I’m gonna make music,” he whispers, so hopeful it comes out almost like a question.

“I’m really going to miss you,” Enjolras whispers, and leans in to hold him closer. “Promise you won’t love your work so much you forget about me?”

Enjolras never gave back the ring after the Harvard event. Grantaire catches him playing with it sometimes when he’s thinking about the big issues that trouble him. Like it’s soothing. “I could never forget you,” Grantaire promises. “You believed in me when I didn’t.” He slides off another ring and gives it to Enjolras. “Plus, this one, I need back.”

  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
